


Voyeur

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John masturbates. Sherlock watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voyeur

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/4923652.html>

The clock on John's bedside table flashes 15:00. Sunlight burns through the fabric of the bedroom curtains, so bright it's almost as if John hasn't shut them at all, dust particles wavering in the air.  
  
John's feeling particularly lazy this afternoon. Particularly indulgent. The rest of the flat is quiet and still. A motorcycle roars past on the street outside.  
  
He's not hard again yet, not quite, but he's getting there. One nice long wank was followed by a drowsy restfulness with John not bothering to get up and clean himself down. He almost dozed for a bit somewhere down the line.  
  
And now here he is. Slowly coming back to his senses and he's still aroused. Nothing else to do this afternoon and he may as well go for it. Wants to go for it. Anticipation already tingling through to his fingertips.  
  
The semen on John's stomach warms as it gets smeared under his palm. Sticky. Squelchy. Not disgusting though; filthy. Dirty. Just that little bit of not quite right and it oozes, slick, as he dips more fingers in it and smoothes it along the length of his cock.  
  
He's hardening already, just from that.  
  
There's an exhale off to one side. From where he's crouching on the floor, sleeves rolled up and elbows propped on the bed, Sherlock looks at him. "Do you always do it this way?" Sherlock asks. "Is it normal to use your own semen as lubricant?"  
  
John flicks him a glance and doesn't stop the movement of his hand, dragging up up towards the head and then down, slow, skin shining white in its wake. "I doubt I'm the only one who's tried it," John says. He lets out a breath. "I don't always do it this way though. Feeling particularly filthy today is all."  
  
Sherlock hums, watching John's hand, his head on one side. "Does it feel different to using another lubricant?"  
  
"Of course," says John. "Doesn't feel quite as good if I'm honest, but that's not the point. The point is knowing that I'm stroking myself through my own come," he pulls back his lips from his teeth, "and that's rather nice."  
  
"Ah." Sherlock's lips part. "So it's as much about what you're thinking as what it feels like. Fantasy, then." He looks at John, eyes questioning. "Do you fantasise much, John?"  
  
John takes a breath and tries to relax the grip of his fingers. It's too tight, too soon, and he's not ready yet. He looks at Sherlock, at Sherlock watching him, with his questions and his academic interest. "This is weird, Sherlock," he says. "Don't you think this is weird? You watching while I touch myself?" John doesn't stop though. "You're my flatmate, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock scoffs. "Unimportant. I want to learn more about the male sexual response." He looks at John with bright eyes. "Do you know how many crimes are to do with sex?"  
  
"Yeah." John licks his lips. Relaxes his grip completely and trails the backs of his fingers up his cock instead. "Yeah, but can't you just study yourself?" He looks at the way the light catches on Sherlock's cheekbones. "I'm sure you've got all the right bits and pieces."  
  
"Boring." Sherlock leans closer to John's hips. Watches John's hand. "What does it feel like when you do that?"  
  
"Ticklish." John props himself up on an elbow so he can see Sherlock better. "What do you mean, 'boring'? Don't you ever...?"  
  
Sherlock purses his lips. "No. Don't care for it."  
  
"Oh," says John. He frowns for a moment and concentrates on the feel of the soft slickness against the backs of his knuckles.  
  
Sherlock laughs, a low, deep sound. "John," he says, voice amused, "you look disappointed. Did you like the thought of me masturbating? Me doing this to myself?"  
  
John bites his lip, turns his hand around and clasps his cock in a sudden, tight grip. "No," he gasps.  
  
Sherlock gives John a sly glance but is silent. He watches, eyes sharp, as John runs his fingers up and over his foreskin, working it soft and slick against the head.  
  
John takes a deep breath.  
  
"You're taking a long time," says Sherlock.  
  
"Mmm." John licks his lips. "Always takes longer the second time." He looks Sherlock in the eye. "Is this all you're here for, then? Just sitting and watching?"  
  
"Analysing," clarifies Sherlock. His lashes lower as he watches John's hand move back down his cock again. "How good does that feel on a scale of one to five?"  
  
John thinks about it for a moment. Strokes himself some more, his hand slow and heavy. "Three." He lowers himself back down onto the bed and places his feet flat on the sheets, knees apart. "This is still weird, you know," he tells the ceiling.  
  
"Unimportant." The mattress shifts as Sherlock leans forward and folds his long hands together. John can almost feel him breathing against his thigh. "Besides," says Sherlock, "you're enjoying it."  
  
John's hand slides down over his balls to rub two slick fingers up against his perineum. He screws his eyes shut and sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Who said I was enjoying it?"  
  
"I do." Sherlock inhales. "Every time you look at me, your pupils dilate a little bit wider, cheeks flush a little bit darker. And whenever I make a point of staring at your cock, it grows harder, noticeably. Just like now." He chuckles, pleased with himself. "Conclusion: you like having someone watch you, John. Or rather, you like having _me_ watch you."  
  
John's hips rock down into the bed and he clutches his cock up in his free hand. The fingers on his perineum rub faster. "I'm not gay, though," he pants.  
  
"Oh," Sherlock gives out a huff of breath that John can feel against his knee, "but I'm special."  
  
"Not in that way." John's fingertips work their way down to circle his anus slickly. His breath hitches.  
  
"How often do you fantasise about me, John, when you're doing this? Once a week? Twice a week?" Sherlock's head lowers to the level of John's hips. "Did you ever think I'd ask to watch you like this? Did you dream of it? Or did you want me to touch you; want to touch me in return?"  
  
John bites down on his lip so hard that it stings. The hand on his cock smoothes up over the head, slick and shining, and he thrusts up into his grip a little. "I don't..."  
  
"Do you think of me naked or clothed, John? Do you want me in control or shuddering?" Sherlock doesn't take his eyes from John's cock. "Have you ever wondered if my cheeks would flush when I come? If I would make a noise? If I would taste as good as I look?" His breath is audible. "Taste yourself, John."  
  
The hand that was on John's cock flies up to his mouth without thought, two fingers pushing greedily past his teeth. It's bitter. The fingers on John's anus run up to his cock again. "Sherlock..."  
  
"Do you think I could deduce the timing of your orgasm, John? Do you want to know how far you've got to go?"  
  
John runs his tongue over the pads of fingers then lets his hand drop down to his cock again, two hands stroking himself for a moment before one travels down to work his balls, desperate. When he sucks in a breath, it's more of a hiss than anything else.  
  
"Scale of one to five," snaps Sherlock, "how good?"  
  
"Five," gasps John. His hips rock. "Bloody, five. Sherlock, what are you...? God..."  
  
"Still analysing, John. Your thighs are trembling. You know, like this, I can almost see how masturbation could be enjoyable."  
  
John makes a sound like a dying man. His hands speed up. "Don't stop, Sherlock. Don't...ah. I want you to..." One hand sneaks out to the crease of John's thigh, pushing against it, smearing the skin sticky with semen. "Please."  
  
"You know you have my complete attention, John."  
  
"Fuck!" gasps John. "Fuck. Jesus. Christ." He kneads at his thigh and ejaculates over his already messy stomach, clear up to his neck. "God. Sherlock. God. God." And he inhales so sharply that it's almost a sob.  
  
"Interesting," is the last thing Sherlock says before he disappears. Fading away into the heavy beating of John's heart.  
  
Somewhere outside, a dog barks.  
  
John shudders and collapses back on the bed, an arm coming up to rest a weary wrist against his forehead. "Christ."  
  
Fourth time this week.  
  
He needs to stop these fantasies. It's not healthy. Not at all.  
  
Downstairs, it seems as if the real Sherlock chooses that moment to return home with a slam of the front door and steps through into the living room.  
  
John rolls over onto his side and stares at the closed curtains, chest heaving.  
  
The footsteps downstairs end suddenly with the burst of a tune from a violin.  
  
Smearing a sticky hand over his abdomen, John lets it linger there and closes his eyes.


End file.
